I wish I'd written it.
It's one of those songs you sing too loud in the car,
that you feel in your stomach.
Or that poem I read about learning the names
of flowers in Irish in Glencolmcille,
or that one about the whirling exit of a boat leaving St Kilda.
A beautiful poem gathers you into it,
takes you out of yourself, makes you better.
You enter it by back doors and chimneys
with the draughts and rattles.
Stepping over screeching floorboards,
and stair treads, you hold your breath.
You know its perfect lines are taut enough
to bear the weight of your own thoughts
landing like crows,
fit enough to offer them canvas, stave.
You wander the poet's shadow-house,
make yourself a cup of tea,
get to know your host better.
You recognise in his face
a cousin, brother, angel, teacher
and you give yourself over to the teaching.
You are slow to leave but
wary of out-staying your welcome
you gather yourself off the bare boards,
hoping there is some dust in your pocket
and that down the line you'll find it in the lint,
the memory of your soul being touched.
Come in, it'll say, I'll give you shelter from the storm.
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése